


If You Die, I'll Kill You

by ActualWritesThings



Category: Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 09:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13738263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualWritesThings/pseuds/ActualWritesThings
Summary: The life of a commando is dangerous and it's impossible to get through it unscathed.





	If You Die, I'll Kill You

Smoke and the sound of screams hang heavy over the battlefield as the GAR hemorrhages men at the oncoming Sep forces. The battlefield was previously some farmer’s crops, but now is little more than bloody mud and trampled greenery, with more than a few fallen vode mixed in.

The entire 382nd Legion is on the ground, fulfilling their purpose and fighting desperately against the Seps, dying as they try to obey the orders their Jedi gave them. Every battalion, every clone. Including the commandos of Aiwha-2.

They shouldn’t be fighting in this battle. It’s not the sort of thing commandos normally do, not large scale battles like this. And it’s not a case of being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, they were deliberately ordered into battle by a Jedi whose grasp of tactics is so tenuous that a five year old cadet could do better.

They were deliberately ordered into battle and Scratch took a tank round to the chest.

* * *

He’s still alive, Sniff can still see his vital signs in his HUD, but he has no idea how long that will last. Not long at all if Scratch doesn’t get medical attention. And even shorter if the Seps get any closer. Sniff needs to get to him _now,_ but there’s still Seps firing at them.

He doesn’t even have to ask for covering fire; Storm and Ash are already moving into position. “Go to him! Now!” Storm doesn’t need to tell him twice, and he’s scrambling through the rubble to get to Scratch before it’s too late.

Scratch isn’t where he fell, but is a few feet further than that. There’s marks in the dirt from where he drug himself away before the effort must have become too much. He’s ripped off his bucket, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he gasps wetly for air. That’s not good. That’s _really_ not good. Even less good is how he’s not moving at all now, how his vital signs are growing weaker in Sniff’s HUD. His eyes are still open though, and he tracks Sniff as he approaches. Right now, Sniff’s taking that as as good of a sign as he’s going to get.

“Stay with me Scratch.” Sniff drops to his knees on the ground next to Scratch, already pulling out medical supplies, prepping a dose of painkillers.

“Ow.” Sniff isn’t sure if that’s in response to him injecting his neck with the hypo or just a generalized vocalization of pain. He has to hope it’s in response, that Scratch isn’t that far gone yet. Just like he has to hope that Scratch is closing his eyes from pain, not because he’s about to march on.

“I know this hurts, but you have to stay awake,” Sniff’s trying to keep his voice professional, like it’s not his own karking _husband_ limp on the ground in front of him, but he’s not succeeding. Scratch is blinking up at him, his face oddly blank and Sniff is already mentally praying to whatever will listen to him that Scratch’s luck holds, that he makes it through this. Even as he prepares for the fact that he probably won’t.

“‘m tired riduur,” Scratch is slurring the words, his eyes barely open.

“You can sleep when we get back, ok? I’ll even let you sleep in and won’t complain about you not letting me up,” Sniff isn’t above bribery, not if he thinks it might keep his husband alive. He can’t help but cup Scratch’s cheek, so painfully aware that this might be the last time he gets to do so. “I promise.”

Scratch barely responds, just a soft noise that could be a ‘promise?’ slipping from his lips.

“Yeah, I promise,” Sniff repeats before beginning the process of trying to keep his husband alive. His hands go through the motions without him thinking about it, prying off the dented armor to get to the blood-soaked nanoprene beneath. He sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth as he does; the clasps are sticky and stiff with blood, making him use more force than he’d like. And the nanoprene — it’d be dark with blood even if it weren’t already black. This is _bad._

He’s not going to remove the nanoprene, not when he’s fairly certain it’s the only thing keeping Scratch’s insides actually _inside_ him. All he can do is trust in his training and Scratch’s will to live. All he can do is hope it will be enough.

“Talk to me Sniff,” Storm’s voice is terse, and his camera feed shows he and Ash are busily keeping the Seps off of Sniff as he desperately tries to keep Scratch from marching on.

“Heavy trauma, internal bleeding and some burns. I can’t remove the nanoprene to check severity, but at least second degree. Also can’t be sure how bad his ribs are broken, but judging from the bleeding, there’s likely at least one open fracture. No sign of a sucking chest wound yet, but that could change.” He stays calm, emotionless even as he reports to Storm, and he’d hate it if he wasn’t so focused on Scratch.

Scratch’s vital signs are still growing weaker, fading away little by little despite Sniff doing everything he can. Sniff wants to be able to throw himself into the trance of work, like he can any other time, on any other vod. He can’t. His mind keeps returning to the fact that this is _Scratch,_ repeating it again and again like repetition will change him to someone else. Change him into someone else dying in Sniff’s arms.

He realizes he’s saying things, a steady stream of ‘stay with me’ and ‘I’ve got you’ and ‘don’t you fucking _dare_ die on me you asshole.’ It’s probably not doing anything, but he couldn’t stop it if he tried. He just keeps treating Scratch, placing field dressings on the worst of the wounds, the ones clearly seeping blood, and then injecting Scratch with another hypo, a coagulant and blood-loss control agent this time.

Scratch doesn’t even respond to the hypo. His eyes are closed and he’s that bloodless grey of a corpse. If it weren’t for the fact that Sniff can see his chest rise and fall, can see his heartbeat in his HUD, he’d assume the worst. “If you die, I’m going to the manda itself to drag you back to life you karking shabuir.” He’s not sure if he’s threatening, promising, or pleading, but the words come out anyways.

That works. Somehow, that works. And the slow steady fading of Scratch’s vital signs stops. They’re still weak, barely there, but he’s _stabilized._ There’s a tiny bit more color in Scratch’s cheeks than there was even half a minute ago and Sniff’s heart jumps in relief.

“Transport’s ETA in fifteen.” Storm’s voice interrupts the whispered prayer of thanks Sniff’s muttering, but he doesn’t mind. Scratch isn’t going to die in his arms. Not now. Not today.

“He’s stabilized but tell them to hurry,” he says, watching as the last of the Seps in Storm’s feed fall, watching as Storm and Ash slog through the mud to join the two of them. Storm reaches out and grabs Scratch’s hand, holding it tight enough that Sniff can hear the armor of their gauntlets creak. He doesn't mind though. He’d be doing the same thing if he weren’t monitoring Scratch’s condition. Still holding steady. Still too weak for comfort. He can’t do anything else though, not with just a field kid.

All there is to do is wait for evac.

* * *

It takes forever for the larty arrive. Or maybe it just feels like forever.

Scratch doesn’t destabilize. But he doesn’t improve either. He’s still alive though, and Sniff is focusing on that rather than the feelings of helplessness that are trying to overwhelm him. His husband is still alive and Sniff’s praying he stays that way.

Around them, the rest of the 382nd is finishing off the last of the Sep forces, somehow grabbing victory — climbing to it over the bodies of their fallen brothers. Literally in a few places. Their casualties were heavy, heavier than they should have been. Heavier than they would have been if they’d had a Jedi that wasn’t so focused on being detached that he forgot to care about other living beings.

Sniff forces those thoughts out of his head as the larty lands, forces the exhaustion from his bones as he briefs the medics that pour out of it and swarm Scratch, maneuvering him onto first a gurney and then into the larty. The rest of the squad follows, the high of battle already beginning to fade into bone deep exhaustion. Then, just as suddenly as it landed, the larty’s taking off again.

The larty’s the controlled chaos of a triage tent, medics crowding Scratch’s body, snapping orders at each other. Sniff’s pressed against the bulkhead and as he tries to push himself off to join in, to do _something_ other than just stand there and watch, the medic closest to him just pushes him back. “Let us work,” they say, not even looking at Sniff as they prep another hypo. Of what Sniff isn’t sure and that bothers him — this is his _husband,_ he should at least know what they’re doing to him. So he brushes off their hand, moves away from the bulkhead anyways.

Only for the medic to pass the hypo to another and shove Sniff back against the bulkhead with both hands, moving to be directly in his space. “Let us work, _shithead._ We’re fresher than you and he needs the best care he can get. Which isn’t you right now. So back the fuck down, _vod,”_ they punctuate the words by pushing Sniff further and further against the bulkhead until his back is flush with it. “Either fuck off or just get fucked, but stay the fuck out of our way.” In the privacy of his bucket, Sniff blinks in surprise. He’s _never_ had a standard talk to him like that, but he’s not going to fight it. Not when they’re the ones keeping Scratch alive now. The medic takes his silence as acceptance and turns their attention back to the gurney, back to Scratch.

Sniff still leans closer, listening to the orders being snapped, eyes focused on Scratch’s form. The other medics haven’t taken off the nanoprene either. Good.

The larty shakes as it breaks atmo, but it’s just the normal turbulence of propelling a hunk of metal and clones through the air and not the turbulence of dodging incoming anti-aircraft fire. It’s only a short flight to their ship, and then the medics are shoving everyone else off first, to give them more room to get Scratch out. They float him out, toward the medbay and Sniff goes to follow. But the medic, the same one, pushes him back again. “No. Not when you’re coming off a battle-high and haven’t sleep in gods knows how long.” They’re not quite as terse this time, but still just as firm. “Go take care of yourself and let us take care of him.”

Sniff grits his teeth and nods. They’re right. He hates it, but they’re right. The medic nods in response then jogs after the stretcher carrying Scratch away.

Now the only thing Sniff can do is _nothing._ Fuck.

* * *

Sniff is really beginning to hate the medbay. He’s spent vigil in here before, waiting for someone in his squad to wake up. But never for this long. And never this helpless.

The medics at the medbay aren’t letting Sniff oversee Scratch's care. They’ll relay information to him, keep him updated, but he has no part in Scratch’s care now. ‘Conflict of interest’ or some such osik. Part of him gets it. The rest of him is staring hopelessly at Scratch, counting the days he’s been doing this.

It’s been almost two weeks and Scratch hasn’t woken up yet. They haven’t even taken him out of the bacta tank yet. He’s still motionless in the tank, eyes closed and body washed pallid by the lights of the medbay and the bacta covering him. The only way he’d look more like a corpse is if there weren’t a steady stream of bubbles from his respirator. The only hint of color to him are the still livid skin grafts on his chest, an angry red against the rest of his skin.

Sniff doesn’t know who died so that Scratch could have skin grafts. Doesn’t much care. Hypocritical of him perhaps, to not care about some of his vode so long as it keeps his pod alive. But that doesn’t keep him from determinedly not wondering who the skin grafts came from. Who died and had their parts reused to keep Scratch alive.

Gods, they really are just wet droids aren’t they? Sniff shakes his head, drives that thought out. Tries to at least. His mind keeps circling it, worrying at it like an akk would a bone.

 _Wet droids._ That’s all they are. Good for fighting only. To be disposed of when done, when not even spare parts will keep them functional. Acceptable casualties.

He shakes his head again, drags his hands down his face, presses his fingers against his cheek until the skin would be bloodlessly white if not for the tattoo. It’s not enough to keep him from trying to circle back to those thoughts, so he digs his nails in. It stings, enough to focus him, make him push himself off the plastoid chair he’s been sitting in. He staggers to the ‘fresher to splash water in his face, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he does. He looks like shit. He _feels_ like shit. But he’s still alive and he’s still awake so he forces himself to shake it off and return to his vigil in the medbay.

But when he gets there, Storm and Ash are waiting for him.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Or ate?”

“And not in that chair.”

“And not from the mess here.”

The two of them don’t let up, firing question after question at him until all he can do is blink in confusion and accept it. Storm sighs and grabs Sniff’s forearm, grip tight enough that Sniff can’t just pull away. “You’re going to go eat, shower, and then get at least four hours uninterrupted sleep in an actual bunk,” he orders, voice not allowing for any sort of argument, something close to a glare on his face. “And if I have to do it for you, you _really_ aren’t going to like it, tayli'bac?”

Sniff can’t muster up the energy to glare back at his brothers. “‘Lek,” he mutters instead, because they’re _right._ He wishes he was imagining the way Storm’s shoulders slumped in relief as he lets go of Sniff.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, you go sleep,” Ash says and Sniff can manage a small smile at that. “Toast’ll be here soon,” he adds, before Sniff can even think to ask.

“C’mon vod. Let’s get some food in you,” Storm says, nudging Sniff toward the exit and Sniff lets him, not bothering to pull himself together enough to talk further. He just has to keep going. He can do it. He has to. Has to keep himself together so he’s there for Scratch. _Easy._

* * *

It’s not until he’s laying collapsed in his bunk that the fact his brothers forced him out of the room right before the medics would make their rounds occurs to him and an ice cold bolt of fear shoots through him. They _wouldn’t._ Scratch is their brother too, they’ve been together since they were decanted. They wouldn’t just sit by and let him get decommissioned. They _**wouldn’t.**_

That knowledge doesn’t keep him from scrambling to his feet, frantic fingers pulling his boots on before he’s even opened his eyes. His hair falls into his face and he pulls it back as he sprints to the medbay, nearly crashing into a wall at one point, but managing to just push off of it and keep going.

Storm’s outside the door to medbay and Sniff only barely manages to skid to a stop before running into him. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

“Storm-” He tries to push past, tries to get into the medbay. But Storm grabs him and he’s not running on fumes, he can hold Sniff tight, keep him from breaking loose.

“No. Not yet.”

“Storm!” He struggles in Storm’s grasp, digging his nails into the flesh of Storm’s wrist, trying to pry him off. He’s fighting dirty because this can’t be happening. It is happening but it _can’t_ be. “Gar aruetyc hut’uun!” Storm’s not fighting back, other than deflecting what blows he can, and that only fuels Sniff’s desperation.

The fight — if it can be called that — ends when Sniff gets sloppier and Storm takes advantage, pinning him against the wall with a forearm pressed tight against Sniff’s throat. “Shut up and listen to me you jare’la di’kut. They’re _decanting_ him.”

That makes Sniff pause, panting for breath as he glares at Storm.

“Then why didn’t they tell me?!” he demands, wanting to believe this.

“Because they didn’t want you doing anything stupid. Like this!” Storm snaps back, pressing his arm further against Sniff’s throat to emphasize his point. He keeps it pressed there, his gaze flat and hard as he looks Sniff in the eyes. Sniff looks away first, unable to meet Storm’s eyes for that long. That’s what gets Storm to release his hold on Sniff, letting him back down. “They’re almost done. And they’ll let you in to see him once they are. But not until.”

Sniff nods in understanding because there isn’t much else he can do. He wants to say something, but now that the adrenaline is fading, words aren’t coming easily to him.

He’s saved the struggle of trying to apologize to Storm by the door opening and a medic coming out. They sigh when they see Sniff, but they don’t look tense or worried so Sniff’s trying to take that as a good sign.

“He’s out and you can see him,” the words are barely out the medic’s mouth before Sniff’s pushing past Storm and into the medbay toward Scratch. Toward his husband.

Scratch is still and pale in the bed, but he’s out of the bacta tank. That’s a good sign. Sniff has to believe that’s a good sign. And he’s not as pale as he was in the tank. Also a good sign.

Sniff sinks into the chair someone already placed next to the bed, reaching out and grabbing Scratch’s hand, ignoring how cool and dry it feels. Just like he ignores how the edges of the chair dig into his thighs. It’s not important. Scratch is going to be alright. He has to believe Scratch is going to be alright.

* * *

Sniff’s not sure when he fell asleep, but he’s woken at the feeling of movement in his hand. He snaps awake, body thrumming with tension and ready to fight whoever’s trying to move him away from Scratch. Only for Scratch to be awake, intertwining his fingers with Sniff’s and smiling at him.

“Hey riduur,” Scratch says and the smile on his face grows wider. Sniff would fall to his knees and thank whatever gods were responsible for this if it weren’t for the fact his ass was numb from sitting in that damned chair for however long. As it is, he surges to his feet and kisses Scratch like it’s the only thing in the world. His lips are dry and he tastes faintly of bacta, but Sniff doesn’t care. His husband is _awake._ “Missed me?” Scratch jokes when they break for air and all the tension that Sniff had been carrying for the past eternity fades away.

“You have no idea,” he manages, sitting back down in the chair, wincing slightly as he does. “I was worried,” he admits because he finally can.

“I’m _fine._ ” Scratch punctuates this by sitting up, not even needing Sniff’s help to do so. That doesn’t keep Sniff from hovering, doesn’t keep him from gripping Scratch’s hand tighter.

“Two weeks.”

“What?”

“Two. Weeks.” Sniff finds himself taking a deep breath, trying not to let it shudder as he does. He fails on the exhale and his entire chest shakes with it. “You were out for two weeks. They only decanted you—” he checks his chrono— “ _yesterday._ Two weeks of watching you and wondering if today was going to be the day you died.” He takes another deep breath, not even bothering to keep this one from shaking. “If you were a standard, or a pilot, or anything other than a commando, Sha-Loy would have ordered you decommissioned.” If he was a standard, he wouldn’t have lived. His armor would crumpled like wet flimsi and he would have been nothing more than a red smear on the dirt.

Scratch’s eyes soften at that, the bravado fading away. “But I didn’t. Riduur, I’m still here,” he says, reaching out with his free hand to cup Sniff’s cheek, running his fingers against the stubble. There’s not as much of a rasp as usual, the calluses on Scratch’s hand softened from his stint in the tank. “I’m not going to leave you. I promise.”

It’s not a promise that he can keep, Sniff knows this. Doesn’t care though, because it’s what he needs to hear. “Good,” he says instead, leaning his head into the hand on his cheek, his own hand coming up to cover it. “Kar'taylir darasuum,” he adds, because it needs said. Because he didn’t get the chance to say it while waiting for Scratch to live. Because he was saving it.

“Kar'taylir darasuum,” Scratch repeats and Sniff sags into the chair.

Everything’s going to be fine. For once in their lives, everything is going to be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my longest fic to date, and it took me almost a month to write. Feedback is very much appreciated.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Mando Translations  
>  _riduur:_ spouse, mate  
>  _shabuir:_ jerk, but stronger  
>  _vod:_ sibling, bro  
>  _osik:_ shit  
>  _tayli'bac:_ understand? (blunt)  
>  _'lek:_ yeah  
>  _Gar aruetyc hut’uun:_ you traitorous coward (very rude)  
>  _jare'la dikut:_ kamikaze idiot  
>  _Kar'taylir darasuum:_ love
> 
> * * *
> 
> Love this? Want to learn more about these characters? Start [here.](http://notactuallyherenotreally.tumblr.com/post/170853075227/so-i-realized-i-dont-actually-have-a-master-list)


End file.
